Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The leather of his father’s chair was cool against the backs of his thighs. Corey let his head loll against the high wingback, bare legs draped over one carved armrest, the silk robe falling open to the waist. He watched the firelight play across the ceiling’s intricate plasterwork. The third candidate would be here any moment.
The first two had been suitable. Competent. Boring. They saw a privileged teenager playing at independence, a paycheck wrapped in porcelain skin and red hair. They didn’t see him. Not the way he needed to be seen.
A single, firm knock echoed through the study door before it opened. No waiting for permission. That was the first detail Corey logged.
Marcus Riley filled the doorway. He didn’t stride in; he occupied the space, his presence thickening the air of the room. Close-cropped dark hair, a frame of solid muscle barely contained by a simple black tactical shirt and cargo pants. His boots were silent on the deep Persian rug. His eyes, a flinty grey, swept the room with a sniper’s efficiency—the bookshelves, the fire, the desk, the mirror—before landing on Corey.
They didn’t widen. They didn’t flicker with judgment. They simply lingered. Travelled from the messy red curls damp from Corey’s shower, down the line of his throat, over the exposed pale plane of his chest and stomach, to the bare legs, the deep black of the robe against his skin. The gaze was assessing, utterly professional, and yet it felt like a physical touch. Corey’s pulse spiked, a quick thrill zipping down his spine.
“Mr. Ainsworth,” Mac’s voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. “Marcus Riley. Your agency said 8 PM.”
“They also said business casual. You missed the memo.” Corey kept his voice light, a playful lilt. He didn’t move from his indolent pose.
“This is my casual,” Mac replied, his mouth a neutral line. He remained standing, hands loose at his sides. “The job is head of security. Not corporate espionage. My clothes are functional.”
“Sit.” Corey gestured lazily to the chair opposite the desk.
Mac sat. He didn’t sink into it; he perched on the edge, spine straight, radiating a containment that made the sprawling study feel small. Corey finally swung his legs down, letting his feet settle on the rug. He leaned forward, elbows on the polished mahogany, the robe gaping further. He saw Mac’s eyes drop, just for a fraction of a second, to the shadow between his pecs.
“Your resume is impressive. Tier One unit. Private sector after. Why leave your last post?”
“Contract ended. The principal was an idiot. I don’t work for idiots.”
“And you think I’m not an idiot?”
“I think you’re eighteen, recently emancipated, and sitting in your daddy’s study in a bathrobe conducting interviews. It’s unconventional.” Mac’s eyes locked with his. “But the security systems here are top-tier. Your financials are orderly. And you haven’t taken your eyes off me since I walked in. You’re assessing more than my qualifications.”
Corey felt a flush of heat that wasn’t from the fireplace. Finally. Someone who looked back. He offered a slow smile. “What do you think I’m assessing, Mr. Riley?”
“Physical capability. Discipline. Threat level.” Mac paused. “Predisposition.”
The word hung in the air between them, charged like the silence before a lightning strike. Corey held his gaze, his own blue eyes unwavering. This was the precipice. He’d practiced this moment in his mind for months, with silicone and fantasy. Now, the real thing was here, smelling of clean sweat and gun oil, watching him with a controlled intensity that made his mouth go dry.
He had a plan. A secret, gleaming plan built during a year of lonely, luxurious boredom. He was of age. The family wealth was his to command, within reason. He wasn’t interested in dating apps or awkward hookups. He wanted a curated experience. A private collection. Men of a certain caliber—strong, disciplined, dangerous. He wanted them to serve him, to control him, to thrill him. The idea of those men being military-grade, loyal to him because he fulfilled their deepest, most secret fantasies, was a powerful intoxicant. He would be their secret. Their decadent, demanding reward. He wanted to be fucked and teased and played with until he was mindless. He wanted to be filled—a slut, but a jeweled one, owned by his own design. And it started here, with this man.
“Let’s drop the corporate interview, Mac,” Corey said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Can I call you Mac? The other two… they saw a kid. You don’t.” He shifted, letting one knee fall open wider. “I’m not looking for just a bodyguard. I’m looking for a… facilitator. A man who understands complex needs. Discrete needs.”
Mac didn’t flinch. His expression remained that of a soldier receiving a briefing. “What are your needs, Mr. Ainsworth?”
“Corey. When we’re in this room, it’s Corey.” He took a slow breath. “I require absolute privacy. Beyond the normal. I have interests my family would not understand. I intend to show the world what they want to see, but behind that another man needs to emerge. Privately. The security detail would need to be part of that privacy. More than part of it.” He let the implication hang, heavy and sweet.
Mac’s gaze was unwavering. “You’re proposing a conflict of interest. A security professional cannot be compromised by a personal relationship with the principal.”
“Who said anything about relationship?” Corey’s smile turned razor-sharp. “I’m talking about an arrangement. A mutually beneficial understanding. You ensure my safety from the outside world. And in return… you have unparalleled access. To me.” He let the robe slip from one shoulder, the fabric pooling at his elbow. The firelight danced on his porcelain skin. “I’ve done my research on you, Mac. Your last principal was a eighty-year-old diplomat. Dry work. I imagine you have… frustrations. Pent-up energy. I’m offering a creative outlet.”
For the first time, Mac moved. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. His eyes traveled over Corey’s exposed shoulder, down his arm, with the same tactical assessment he’d given the room. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I know what I want.” Corey’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was the gamble. “And I’m very, very good at providing what others want. I’m adaptable. Eager to learn. I want to be… utilized.”
Mac was silent for a long moment. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the low tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Corey could see the calculation behind those grey eyes, the weighing of risk against a temptation so blatant it was almost insulting.
Finally, Mac spoke, his voice even lower. “You’re playing a dangerous game. Bringing personnel into your fantasy. You can’t control real men the way you control your toys.”
Corey’s breath hitched. He knew. How did he know? The realization was a bolt of pure lightning. It wasn’t a guess; it was an observation. This man saw him. Truly saw him. The year of secret preparation, the obsessive research, the hunger.
“Maybe I don’t want to control them,” Corey whispered, the confession torn from him. “Maybe I want them to control me. But on my terms. In my world. With my rules. Starting with you.”
Mac stood up suddenly. Corey flinched, but didn’t retreat. Mac walked around the desk, his movement fluid and predatory. He stopped beside the chair, looking down at Corey. From this angle, he looked massive. Corey had to tilt his head back, his throat exposed.
Mac reached out. He didn’t touch Corey’s skin. He hooked a single, calloused finger under the silk collar of the robe, feeling the quality of the fabric. His knuckle brushed the hollow of Corey’s collarbone.
“This isn’t an interview anymore, is it?” Mac said, his voice a rough scrape.
“No,” Corey breathed.
“You’re looking for a first recruit. For your secret little army.”
Corey nodded, unable to speak.
Mac leaned down, his mouth close to Corey’s ear. His heat was immense. “I don’t do harem’s, kid. I run units. There’s a difference.” He pulled back just enough to meet Corey’s eyes again. “You want to be a prize? Then you need to be worth the discipline it takes to earn you. You don’t get a harem. You get a guard detail. And if I take this job… the access you’re offering? That’s my prerogative. On my schedule. Not yours. You don’t use me to fulfill a fantasy. I’ll use you to blow off steam. And you’ll thank me for it. That’s the deal.”
Corey trembled. It wasn’t the script he’d written. It was better. It was real. The threat in it, the sheer dominance, made his head spin. This was no toy. This was a man who would break him if he wasn’t careful. And God, he wanted to be careless.
“Yes,” he said, the word a submission and a victory.
Mac’s other hand came up, his thumb brushing roughly over Corey’s lower lip. “You have pretty words, Corey. And a pretty, ambitious plan.” His thumb pressed down. “We’ll see if you have the fortitude.”
He straightened up, releasing the robe. The moment shattered, reformed into something new—a contract, far more binding than any on paper.
“The job comes with a six-month trial,” Mac said, returning to his professional tone, though his eyes still burned. “I’ll vet the other personnel. You will approve them, but I select them. Understood?”
“Understood,” Corey said, his lips still tingling.
“I’ll start Monday. Have the agency send the paperwork to my email.” Mac turned to leave. At the door, he paused, glancing back. His gaze swept over Corey one last time, from the flushed face to the bare legs, now pressed tightly together.
“And next time I’m here,” he said, “wear something less… negotiable.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Corey sank back into the leather chair, a shuddering sigh escaping him. He felt exhilarated and terrified. He looked at his reflection in the ornate mirror across the room. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed, his robe in disarray. He looked exactly like what he wanted to be: a beautiful, willing instrument.
He had his first man. And Mac was willing. Not on Corey’s terms, but on something harder, something real. It was more thrilling than any fantasy.
The silence after the door clicked shut was profound, thick with the ghost of Mac’s rumble and the crackling promise in the air. Corey let the stillness wrap around him for a full minute, absorbing the shift in the room’s gravity. Then he rose.
The silk robe whispered against his skin as he crossed the Persian rug. He stopped before the ornate, gilt-framed mirror, his reflection a study in contrasts: the opulent room, the dark robe, his own pale, sharp face flushed with excitement. He met his own blue eyes, seeing the hunger there, the cunning satisfaction. This was the face of his secret, looking back.
His hands went to the knotted sash. He pulled it slowly, the silk slithering loose. With a shrug of his shoulders, the robe pooled at his feet, a puddle of black on the intricate pattern of the rug.
The firelight loved his skin. It traced the slender lines of his collarbones, the faint definition of his stomach earned from yoga, the delicate jut of his hip bones. He turned slightly, a curator assessing a piece. The red curls at the juncture of his thighs were a fiery contrast to the porcelain expanse. He was narrow, almost willowy, but supple—every bend and stretch practiced and controlled. He knew what he looked like. Fragile. Breakable. A carefully presented illusion.
His right hand drifted down his stomach, fingers trailing through the coppery hair. His own touch was familiar, but today it was different. Today, it was a prelude. He wasn’t just touching himself. He was presenting.
In his mind, it was Mac standing behind him, those flinty eyes taking inventory. Would he be rough? Corey’s fingers closed around his cock, already half-hard. It was small, neat—a fact he’d long since ceased to care about, because he’d discovered what he preferred. He gave himself a slow, lazy stroke, his breath hitching. In the mirror, his lips parted. Would Mac find it amusing? Insulting? Would he ignore it completely and focus elsewhere?
That was the thought that sent a jolt through him. The idea of being used for a purpose that had nothing to do with his own pleasure, and everything to do with Mac’s. His other hand slipped behind, fingers skimming the curve of his ass. He bent forward slightly, bracing one hand on the mantelpiece, offering his reflection to the imagined man. His own eyes, heavy-lidded now, watched the performance.
He worked himself with a slow, teasing rhythm, not seeking climax but savoring the build. Picturing calloused hands replacing his own. Imagining the blunt pressure of a thick cock against him, the struggle, the surrender. His breathing grew ragged, misting the cool glass of the mirror. “On my schedule,” Mac had said. The loss of control was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever tasted.
When it hit him, the orgasm was a sharp, silent shudder. He came over his own fingers, stripes of white on the dark rug below.
He stayed there for a moment, panting. Then, with a ritualistic precision, he brought his soiled fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate focus. The taste was sharp, familiar. Next, he reached down and scooped the semen from the rug and curved his arm back again, past the curve of his ass. Using his own spend as slick, he pressed first one, then two fingers into himself. The stretch was easy, practiced. He worked them in, coating the tight inner muscle, preparing the way. It was part of the ritual—recycling, making use of everything. Claiming himself in anticipation of being claimed.
Leaving the robe on the study floor, he walked naked through the quiet, darkened halls of the estate to his bedroom. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin, a thrilling contrast to the heat pooling low in his gut.
In his bathroom, he opened a discreet, climate-controlled cabinet. Inside, neatly arranged, was his collection. Silicone in various shades and sizes, each cleaner than a surgical instrument. He selected two: a modest, realistic one for warm-up, and a thicker, veined piece in a deep obsidian black.
He lay back on the king-size bed, the cool sheets against his back. The first toy, already warmed under the tap, glided in with the ease of long habit. He moved it slowly, watching the ceiling, his body accepting it with a soft, internal sigh. This was just opening. Stretching. Making room.
After a few minutes, he set it aside and reached for the black one. This one demanded attention. He slicked it thoroughly with lube from his nightstand, then pressed the blunt head against his entrance. He had to breathe into it, relax muscles he usually kept tightly controlled. There was a moment of insistent pressure, then a sweet, burning give as the widest part slipped past. A low groan escaped him.
This was the feeling he craved. The full, relentless stretch. He rocked into it, setting a deep, punishing rhythm that had his toes curling in the sheets. His mind emptied of everything but sensation and a single, rotating image: Mac’s hands on his hips, guiding him. Mac’s voice in his ear, telling him he was greedy. Mac deciding when he was full enough.
He came again, dry and wrenching, his body clamping around the silicone inside him. He lay spent, the toy still lodged within him, as the aftershocks trembled through his limbs.
Later, cleaned and slick with lotion, wrapped in fresh pajamas, he lay in the dark and planned Monday.
Tailor at ten. He needed the new summer suits fitted. Lunch with Aunt Eleanor at one—a tedious obligation, but she controlled a minor trust fund. The one-on-one hot yoga session at four-thirty. Then the theatre. A new, bleak Scandinavian play he’d chosen precisely because he knew his father would hate it.
And Mac. Mac would be there. A shadow in a tactical coat. Seeing his schedule. Controlling his movements. Watching him with those assessing eyes. The mundane tasks of the day took on a new, secret shimmer. He would be dressing under that gaze. Eating. Stretching his body into poses. All of it a silent performance for his new head of security.
He needed his own secretary, he realized. Someone to manage these appointments, to be a buffer. He couldn’t keep using his father’s people. He’d give that task to Mac. A test of discretion and efficiency.
For now, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. He pulled up the number for his father’s executive assistant, Richard.
The phone rang twice. “Richard? It’s Corey. Yes, I know what time it is.” He kept his voice light, effortless. “I need you to ensure the usual suite at The Lennox is prepared for me for Monday evening. Yes, the full service. Flowers, the bar stocked with the Japanese whisky, the blackout linens. Thank you.”
He ended the call and placed the phone back on the marble nightstand. The Lennox suite was his retreat, his neutral ground. Far from the estate’s watchful portraits. A perfect, private stage.
He closed his eyes, a small, private smile touching his lips. Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
Corey was dressed by seven—a soft, charcoal cashmere sweater, black tailored trousers, bare feet on the heated floor of his dressing room. He’d been awake since five, a nervous energy humming under his skin. He checked his phone. Nothing from the agency, no last-minute cancellation. Mac was coming.
At seven fifty-eight, a soft chime echoed from the estate’s security panel in the hall. A camera feed showed a black SUV at the front gate. Corey didn’t buzz him in. He let Mac wait. At eight-oh-two, he pressed the button. He watched the vehicle glide up the crushed-stone drive.
He was standing by the study’s fireplace when the housekeeper, Mrs. Alder, showed Mac in. The man was dressed similarly to Friday, but everything was crisper, newer. The tactical look was clearly his uniform. His eyes found Corey immediately, the same flat, assessing scan.
“Mr. Riley, sir,” Mrs. Alder said, her tone politely wary.
“Thank you, Mrs. Alder. We’ll be in the study. Please hold my calls,” Corey said, not looking away from Mac.
The door clicked shut. The air tightened.
“You’re late,” Corey said, a faint smile on his lips.
“You left me at the gate for four minutes,” Mac replied. His voice was calm. “Testing. I don’t recommend making it a habit. It flags as a potential system fault on my end.”
“Noted.” Corey gestured to a simple black folio on the desk. “Your packet. Daily schedule, access codes, biometric data. The agency contract is signed. I’ve added a discretionary fund for any immediate equipment you deem necessary.”
Mac picked up the folio but didn’t open it. “Your first appointment is at ten. We should leave by nine-twenty to account for traffic. My vehicle is outside. Do you have a preference for music?”
“No.” Corey felt oddly wrong-footed. Mac was all business. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I read the agency file last night. This,” he tapped the folio, “is backup. Your schedule is in my phone. The Lennox suite is booked for tonight. Why?”
The direct question was a challenge. “I sometimes stay in town after the theatre. It’s more convenient.”
Mac just looked at him. “You have a twenty-minute drive home. Convenience isn’t the reason. But fine. I’ll secure the suite at three PM. You’ll have a two-man detail at the door overnight. I’ll be inside.”
Corey’s breath caught. “Inside the suite?”
“Inside the main room. On the sofa. That’s how this works, Corey. I’m not parking in the hall. If you’re in a hotel, I’m in the room. If that’s a problem, cancel the suite.”
The thought of Mac stationed in his living room all night, a silent, watchful presence, sent a shiver through him. “It’s not a problem.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
The tailor, Marcel, was a fussy Frenchman with pins perpetually between his lips. His shop was a hushed temple of linen and wool, smelling of cedar and steam. Mac took up a position by the door, his back to the window, eyes on the street and the room’s reflection in a gilt mirror.
“The shoulders on the dove grey, Monsieur Ainsworth, they are perfect, no?” Marcel murmured, kneeling to adjust a trouser hem.
Corey stood on the low dais, wearing a half-finished suit. He was hyper-aware of Mac’s gaze. It wasn’t on his face. It was on the three-way mirror, taking in the entire scene. Corey shifted, the fine fabric whispering.
“The waist could be taken in a touch more, Marcel. I’ve lost weight.”
“But of course. You are a slip of a thing.” Marcel’s hands fluttered around Corey’s hips, pinching fabric. Corey glanced at the mirror. Mac’s eyes were now fixed on Marcel’s hands, his expression unreadable.
“Your new shadow is very serious,” Marcel whispered, too low for anyone but Corey to hear.
“He’s efficient,” Corey said, louder than necessary.
“Efficiency is a cold virtue for a young man,” Marcel sighed, standing. “There. Perfection. I will have the rest delivered to the estate Thursday.”
As they left, Mac held the door open. As Corey passed, Mac spoke, his voice barely audible. “He touches you too much.”
Corey looked up, startled. “It’s his job.”
“It’s unnecessary.” Mac’s hand briefly touched the small of Corey’s back, steering him toward the SUV—a proprietary, firm pressure that was gone as soon as it registered. “Lunch with your aunt is at one. We have time. I need to make a stop.”
They pulled up not at a security outfitter, but at a stark, modern gym. “Wait here,” Mac said. “Ten minutes.”
Corey watched through the window as Mac walked in, spoke to the woman at the desk, and was handed a small paper bag. He was back in eight.
“What’s that?” Corey asked as Mac got in.
Mac tossed the bag into his lap. Inside were two simple, black silicone wristbands. “Trackers. Waterproof. You’re never without one. If you take it off, an alarm goes to me and the detail. It doesn’t transmit audio or video. Just location and vitals—heart rate, body temp. Standard for high-net-worth principals.”
Corey pulled one out. It was smooth, unobtrusive. “You think I’m going to bolt?”
“I think you’re a target who has unconventional private habits. If something goes wrong, I don’t want to waste time guessing which bathroom stall you’re in. Put it on.”
Corey snapped it around his left wrist. It fit snugly, like a watch. He felt a faint, ridiculous thrill. He was tagged. Owned, in a digital sense. Mac watched him, then started the engine.
Lunch with Aunt Eleanor was at Le Jardin, all white linen and whispered gossip. She was a hawk in a Chanel suit, her eyes sharp behind her glasses. “And who is this?” she asked, cutting her seared scallop, as Mac stood a discreet distance away, facing the room.
“My new head of security, Marcus Riley.”
“He looks… capable. Your father mentioned you were taking on more independence. I didn’t realize it included a private army.” Her smile was thin. “How are you finding the freedom, darling? Not too lonely in that big house?”
“I’m managing,” Corey said, sipping his mineral water. He felt Mac’s presence like a anchor at his back. “Actually, I’m thinking of traveling this summer. Maybe Iceland.”
“Bleak. But fashionable.” Her eyes flickered over to Mac again. “Does he travel with you?”
“Where I go, he goes,” Corey said, and the words felt significant.
The one-on-one yoga session at four-thirty was where the careful scaffolding of the day began to crack. The studio was a warm, bamboo-paneled room, softly lit, smelling of lemongrass and sweat. His instructor, Leo, was all serene smiles and gentle adjustments.
Mac entered the room behind Corey. “I’ll be here,” he said, taking a seat on a bench against the wall, his posture not relaxing an inch.
“You can wait outside,” Corey said, unrolling his mat.
“I can’t. The room has two other exits. Here is fine. Don’t mind me.”
But Corey minded intensely. Leo began the flow, his voice a calm drone. Corey moved through the poses—downward dog, warrior, pigeon—his body bending and stretching with a fluid grace he was proud of. He was acutely conscious of every line he created, every arch of his back, every extension of his leg in the tight, black shorts. He glanced over during a twisted crescent lunge. Mac was looking at his phone, the screen illuminating his stern face.
A flash of irritation spiked in Corey. Was he not even watching?
Leo came over during a deep forward fold, placing warm hands on Corey’s back to gently press him deeper. “Relax into it,” Leo murmured.
From the bench, Mac’s voice cut through the ambient music. “He’s fine.”
Leo’s hands froze. Corey, upside down through his legs, saw Leo look up, confused.
“It’s okay, Leo,” Corey said, a flush creeping up his neck.
The rest of the session was tense. Leo barely touched him. When they finished, Corey was vibrating with a mixture of humiliation and arousal. Mac had intervened. He’d drawn a line, publicly, in this quiet space.
In the changing room, alone with Mac as Leo had scurried out, Corey hissed, “What was that?”
“My job. Assessing threats. Physical contact from an unsupervised individual in a vulnerable position is a threat.”
“He’s my yoga instructor! It’s his job to touch me!”
Mac took a step closer, crowding him against the lockers. The room was humid, smelling of eucalyptus. “You hired me for a very specific reason, Corey. Don’t pretend now that you want a standard detail. That man’s touch wasn’t a threat to your safety. It was a trespass on something else. On my assessment.” His eyes dropped to Corey’s mouth, then back up. “And I assessed it as unnecessary. Get changed. The theatre is in an hour.”
The play was as bleak as promised, a three-hour slog about a fishing village succumbing to despair. Corey sat in the private box, Mac a dark shape in the chair behind him. He couldn’t concentrate on the stage. He felt the man’s gaze on the back of his neck the entire time. He replayed the moment in the yoga studio, the possessiveness in Mac’s voice. My assessment.
When the lights came up, Corey felt raw, exposed. They walked to the waiting SUV in silence. The city lights streaked past the windows.
“The Lennox,” Corey said quietly.
“I know.”
The suite was as ordered—cool, vast, overlooking the park. A vase of calla lilies sat on the grand piano. Mac entered first, did a swift, thorough sweep of the rooms, then nodded. “Clear.”
Corey walked to the bar, poured two fingers of the Yamazaki, and knocked it back. The burn steadied him. He turned. Mac was standing by the sofa, placing his folio on the coffee table. He’d removed his jacket. The black tactical shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“The detail is posted outside. They’ll rotate at two AM. I’ll be here,” Mac said, nodding to the sofa.
“This is ridiculous,” Corey said, the alcohol and the day’s tension loosening his tongue. “You can’t sleep on a sofa. There’s a second bedroom. Use it.”
Mac looked at him. “The second bedroom has a window access to the fire escape. It’s not secure. The sofa is between you and the main door. This isn’t a sleepover, Corey. It’s a post.”
The finality in his voice was a brick wall. Corey’s carefully orchestrated fantasy of whispered negotiations, of subtle seduction across a hotel room, was crumbling. Mac was treating this with a brutal, practical discipline. It was infuriating. It was electrifying.
“So what’s the protocol?” Corey asked, stepping closer. “I just go to bed in there, and you sit out here all night? What if I can’t sleep?”
“That’s not a security issue.”
“What if I have a nightmare?” Corey pushed, his voice dropping to a taunt.
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Then you suffer through it like an adult.”
“What if I need something?”
“You have a phone. Call room service.”
“I don’t want room service.” Corey was right in front of him now, close enough to see the faint stubble along Mac’s jaw, the small scar above his eyebrow. He could smell him—clean sweat, cotton, that faint gun-oil scent. “You know what I want.”
Mac didn’t move. “The deal was access on my schedule. Not yours. My schedule tonight is surveillance. You’re not a priority.”
The words were a slap. A delicious, degrading slap. Corey’s heart hammered. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m working. Go to bed, Corey.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the challenge hanging in the luxurious air. Corey saw no give, no flicker of the heat he’d seen on Friday. Just impenetrable professional resolve.
Defeated, and wildly turned on by it, Corey turned and walked toward the master bedroom. He paused at the door, looked back. Mac was already sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, a portrait of indifference.
Corey closed the door. He didn’t lock it. He leaned against it, listening. He heard the soft creak of leather as Mac shifted, then nothing.
He changed into pajama pants and got into the enormous bed. The room was dark, silent. He was exhausted, but every nerve was alive. He thought about the wristband on his arm, transmitting his elevated heart rate to the device on Mac’s wrist. He wondered if Mac was looking at it.
He listened for so long his ears strained. Just as he was drifting off, he heard it—the quiet, solid tread of boots on the carpet outside his door. They stopped. A pause, long enough for a hand to maybe rest on the doorknob. Then the steps moved away, back toward the living room.
Corey smiled in the dark, curling onto his side. He wasn't a priority. Not tonight.
But he was a subject of surveillance. And the guard was checking on his charge.
It was a start.